musings from Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington ... home of The Write Spot

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

The White Lady of Box Grove, a true ghost story

Sunday,
December 15, 1975

"Mommy?"

Adam's voice came in a tight whisper, an instant
response to the squeak of floorboards as I climbed the stairs. It was our
second night in the old rented farmhouse and my not-quite-three-year-old son
was restless in unfamiliar surroundings.

Adam looked up, eyes full of worry, as I bent to tuck
in his covers. "Sing me a song?"

"Sure. Just one, though. It's my bedtime,
too." I settled on the edge of his bed and gave him a quiet rendition of
his favourite, You Are My Sunshine."Okay, now?"

"I guess." He didn't sound too sure about the
state of his okay-ness, so I sat for a moment longer, my hand resting gently on
his arm.

"Where'd that lady go?"

"What lady, hon?" This was a puzzler. We
hadn't seen a soul all day. Not since late the night before, when the friends
recruited to help with our move from Toronto dropped off the last boxes.

"The white lady." Adam pointed across the
room. "She was there."

A chill spidered its way up my spine as I turned to
follow his sleepy gaze. In the corner of the room, three-month-old Matthew nestled
peacefully in his crib, sound asleep. No
lady. I let go of the breath I'd been holding and turned back to Adam.
"When was this, sweetie?"

"I woke up," he said, sounding peevish now.
"She was looking at Matty again. I said hi and she did this," Adam
lifted one finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. "Then I heard you. And
then I looked and she was gone. Is she your friend?"

I stroked his hair, hoping he wouldn't notice the
trembling of my hand. "I think you must've been dreaming." I certainly
hoped he'd been dreaming. Thoughts of
other, more ghostly, explanations for a strange lady in white seemed to swarm
and scuttle through my mind.

"No," said Adam. "I told you. I woke up. She came last night, too, but
you were asleep."

Gooseflesh prickled up my arms. Across the room, baby
Matthew grumbled and stretched. "Well," I said, trying to sound a lot
braver than I felt, "she's not here now."

"Did she go home?" he wondered, scanning the
room once more.

"Home to bed," I whispered. And hoped with
every fibre of my being it was the truth.

"Good," he said. "She was tired."
And with that astounding statement, Adam's eyes drifted shut.

I didn't sleep at all that night. After relating the
whole, spooky story to my husband, I'd insisted the two of us make a
top-to-bottom search of the house. Our dog trailed along from room to room,
looking baffled and sleepy but only raising her hackles once, when a mouse
peeked out from beneath the fridge. No unseen, unearthly presence. No odd
feelings. No lady in white.

Adam never mentioned the lady again. Whenever his Dad
or I tried to bring the subject up, he acted as if he'd forgotten all about it.
Winter turned to spring and we settled into life in the sleepy Ontario hamlet
of Box Grove, enjoying our draftybut definitelynot haunted country home.

Months later, my husband paid a visit to a neighbouring
farm in search of nesting straw for our chickens. He returned looking a bit unsettled.
After some coaxing, he related this conversation with the old farmer.

I like to think the White Lady did like us. Hadn't Adam
said his lady was tired? Perhaps knowing the old homestead was loved and cared for
once again gave her peace. Perhaps, with us, the White Lady of Box Grove finally
found her rest.

Fantastic story Cheryl. As I am sure you know they say children are able to see ghosts/spirits much easier than adults. I know spirits exist as I have experienced them but they still unsettle me. I am not sure why. I think you are right that she saw the farmhouse (gorgeous by the way) was loved and cared for and left.Good job with this one and happy Halloween to you.

Joanne, Susan, Sheila ... thank you all for reading and commenting. Glad I was able to scare up a few goosebumps!

Box Grove was one of a handful of hamlets on the outskirts of Markham village - Cedar Grove just down the road, Locust Hill one concession over. Markham is a city now and most of the farms and hamlets have been swallowed up by subdivisions. Our lovely little house is long gone. I wonder what the White Lady thinks of that?